


Among The Stars

by RainyDayDecaf



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (is there really no tag for "non human entity that eats human flesh?"), Alternate Universe - Among Us (Video Game) Setting, Alternate Universe - Human, Among Us AU, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Offscreen Sex/Sex Acts, Mild Gore, Panic Attacks, Restraints, Violence, mentions of consuming human flesh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:20:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27317638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RainyDayDecaf/pseuds/RainyDayDecaf
Summary: Something clicked in his head.Oh.He was in love with Aziraphale....oh, this was just what he needed when he had a gun aimed at his head, an imposter in the room, and a very strong urge to piss himself on the spot.Or, the Among Us AU that nobody asked for.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 33
Kudos: 200





	Among The Stars

**Author's Note:**

> Me: “Hey, since it’s Halloween and I’m in a writing mood, what if I wrote a quick Good Omens/Among Us oneshot?”
> 
> Rational Me: “Boring. Cliche. No one will read it. Someone’s probably already done it.”
> 
> Me: “Yes, but consider. I do what I want.”
> 
> Rational Me: “...you’ve got me there.”
> 
> (If anyone cares about their suit colors, Gabriel is Purple, Crowley is Red, and Aziraphale is White. Predictable, I know, but it’s what I pictured when I first envisioned this AU.)

“Aziraphale, it’s not me…”

“It’s him, it’s been him the whole time!”

“No, angel—!”

“See, that’s how he got away with it for so long! He keeps playing on your sympathy, telling you whatever you want to hear… you’ve been sleeping with the enemy this whole time!”

“No, it was Gabriel, not me! I _caught_ _him_ in the act! Look at him, he’s covered in blood!”

“So are you! And is it a crime to try and protect my crewmate’s body from being eaten by a monster?”

_“I’m not the imposter!”_

But it didn't matter how many times he yelled it, how desperately he pleaded his case. The gun did not waiver. Under the stark lights flickering weakly overhead, Aziraphale looked drawn and sickly inside the helmet of his suit. Who could blame him, after almost a year aboard this cramped spaceship with a bunch of strangers, followed by weeks of rationing and emergency double shifts as their support systems slowly failed, followed by the horror of finding the bodies of their crewmates one by one. Ripped apart, partially devoured, expressions frozen in their moment of despair. Each day a new sabotage, each night a new corpse, and only one of their doomed crewmates had managed to scrawl a message in the pages of her journal. Just three words.

_Imposter among us._

Nothing else. No names, no identifying features, not even a suit color. There had been no time, Crowley would imagine. That was the trick with imposters. It was impossible to tell them apart from humans until they struck for the kill, and by then you were already dead. No one even knew for sure what they looked like, in part because no one had survived long enough to describe it. The one way, the _only_ _way_ to identify them was to catch them in the act of killing and feeding.

And Crowley had done just that. Walking into Electrical to check on Gabriel and Shadwell, cursing under his breath about how long it was taking them, he had seen Gabriel crouched over his crewmate and bringing the knife down again and again and _again._ Blood had splattered on Crowley’s helmet as he stood there watching, frozen to the spot, and he had only regained his senses when Gabriel raised his head, looking weirdly surprised, like Crowley had caught him with porn rather than a _bloody_ _knife_ and the _dead body of his crewmate._

“Aziraphale…”

“Don’t!” Aziraphale shook his head and advanced a step. “Don’t… please don't move, my dear. I don’t want…”

He cut himself off with a faint whimper, biting his lip. Crowley shrank back, flattened himself to the wall like that would do him any good. This hadn’t been at all how he expected things to go when he hit the Emergency button. Aziraphale had been just around the corner, he should have rushed into Electrical, seen the same thing as Crowley, and put a bullet in Gabriel’s helmet on the spot.

He shouldn’t… he shouldn’t…

But it was no mistake or joke. Aziraphale’s finger was wrapped snug around that trigger. Crowley couldn’t take his eyes off those hands, remembering how many times they had helped him in and out of his suit, stroked his aching back and limbs, given him pleasure and comfort on the coldest nights. He knew those lips, that face, better than he knew his own, and he had thought Aziraphale knew him, too.

“Don’t call it cutesy nicknames,” Gabriel said in disgust. “It’s not one of us. I tried to tell you days ago, I never trusted him, we should have had him ejected then!”

“He’s going to kill you, Aziraphale, right after he makes you kill me,” Crowley said urgently. For all of his yelling earlier, he couldn’t seem to raise his voice above a hoarse whisper now. All he could see was the gun, all he could hear was his own frantic heartbeat, and all he could think was _angel, my angel, he’s going to die, we’re both going to die, all because of a fucking imposter wearing Gabriel’s smarmy face…_

“No one is making me do anything!” Aziraphale said, voice jumping. “Now, we’re not going to make any rash decisions right now. We’ll take care of poor Shadwell, and then we’ll all sit down and discuss this rationally…”

“There’s no time for that!” Gabriel insisted. “Do you know what happens right after an imposter kills? They can’t kill again right away, not for at least five minutes, their biology prevents—”

“Ah ha!” Crowley shouted, jabbing a finger at the lying bastard. “And how would you know that unless _you_ were the imposter?”

“Oh, come on, everyone knows that!”

“No, actually, nobody knows a damn thing about imposters! That’s why they're so dangerous! Bloody mimics, they know every trick in the book for blending in, gaining allies who won’t betray them... ”

“And you would know all about that, wouldn’t you? Aziraphale, this might be our only chance! It’s either him or us!”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley begged. “Please. You _know_ me. You know I wouldn’t…”

The lights flickered on and off, the panel of cut wires sparking on the wall. An alarm in the distance started wailing, probably the reactor again. There was no time left, a decision had to be made. Aziraphale looked from Gabriel to Crowley, visibly stricken, but still the gun remained pointed at Crowley, which said more than enough about the position he was in. Gabriel, the _imposter,_ had gone out of his way to engage with the other crewmates, meting out tasks and giving pep talks and making himself the go-to man for the big decisions. No one could ever look at that open, friendly smile and think him capable of murder. He had even gotten _Shadwell_ on his side, the most paranoid and accusatory of them all.

Crowley, on the other hand, had… not done that. Most of his spare time had been spent in the plant room caring for the trees and vegetables, or in his bunk playing mindless computer games, until Aziraphale knocked on his door on day seven and brought him food and companionship. They had laughed together, drank together, shared a bunk for warmth when the heating went on the fritz, then kept sharing a bunk after it was repaired. Crowley hadn’t really bothered with getting to know anyone else, and that had clearly been a mistake in hindsight.

But he had to count on that bond now. It was all he had, this blossoming affection, it was his only chance to save himself. To save them both.

“Angel…”

“See, if he was really human, he wouldn’t be begging for his life right now,” Gabriel said. He edged around behind Aziraphale, and the grin he flashed Crowley was one of savage triumph. “It’s in your hands, sunshine. You’re the head of security. I’ll stand by whatever decision you make.”

“Yeah, as long as it doesn’t mean killing _you,”_ Crowley snarled. “So you can gorge yourself on our flesh after we’re dead! You're a lunatic!”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said. The way his voice wavered was like a knife to the chest, the _uncertainty_ when before they had always trusted each other. “Did you kill Sergeant Shadwell?”

Crowley looked him in the eye, with all the conviction he could muster. “No,” he said.

“Have you killed anyone on this ship?”

“No! I wouldn’t do that!”

“There’s no point reasoning with it,” Gabriel said. “You’re just giving it more chances to attack. Kill it!”

Aziraphale caught his breath, tears streaming freely from his eyes. “Crowley, I’m so sorry. I can’t… you must understand, it would all make _sense_ if it was you. Gabriel has never been in a position to kill the others. Well, except for this one time, but… it _has_ to be you, don’t you see? I can’t let my feelings for you cloud my judgement!”

Crowley shook his head. There was more he wanted to say, more pleas and arguments clustering in his throat, but he couldn’t seem to get the words out. He was utterly mute in the face of almost certain death at the hands of his lover, his… his... 

Something clicked in his head.

Oh.

He was in love with Aziraphale.

...oh, this was _just_ what he needed when he had a gun aimed at his head, an imposter in the room, and a very strong urge to piss himself on the spot.

The main lights shut down altogether, which left them with only the emergency strips and the light from a dropped torch in the hallway. Just behind Aziraphale, Crowley could see Gabriel’s silhouette straightening up.

No, not straightening. He was _growing._ The glass of his helmet had gone opaque, rendering him a faceless monstrosity that suddenly had too many limbs, joints that bent the wrong way. Something _squished_ and Crowley thought he could see a _mouth_ in the middle of it all, teeth and tongues and everything.

The five minutes were up.

Crowley looked at Aziraphale and had one crystal clear epiphany. _Better me than him._

He lunged. Aziraphale gasped in fright and fired the gun, but by some miracle Crowley felt nothing, the bullet had missed, and he shoved Aziraphale aside with all of the strength his famished, sleep-deprived, adrenaline-charged body possessed.

He didn’t have time to scream before the imposter was on him. Something wrapped around his neck (oh God, was that a _tentacle?!)_ and something else punched him in the back. Crowley looked down in a daze at the pink, wiggling _thing_ sticking out of his stomach, impaling him clean through.

He opened his mouth to say _ow_ and coughed up blood.

More gunshots. Aziraphale was saying something, shouting both of their names. Why was he shouting? Was he upset? Wait, right, the imposter, they still had to do something about that. But Crowley blinked and found himself on the floor, gagging, choking, watching his own blood spread in a glistening pool. He heard screeching metal, furious swearing, one final gunshot and the wet sound of something heavy hitting the floor. And after that, a ringing silence.

That was it, Crowley thought as his vision faded. He was dead. Aziraphale was dead. It was all over. Their bodies would end up digested in the belly of some eldritch horror, and the story of what happened on their ship would end up as just another blurb on the news, a bleak warning for future spacefarers.

Well, it had been a nice year, at least. A bit bloody toward the end, but there had been some good moments along the way. Like that time he fell asleep in the plant room and Aziraphale had kissed him awake under the apple tree. And that time Crowley woke up at three in the morning just to get to the cafeteria and save Aziraphale a plate of crepes for after his all-nighter in Navigations. And that time they pranked Ligur on his birthday with the classic bucket-over-the-door trick. Aziraphale had pretended to have nothing to do with it, but they had both gotten in trouble anyway and been made to clean out the rubbish chutes as punishment.

It would have been nice to see it through. Finish the mission, get back to civilization, take Aziraphale on a proper date. Someplace with good food and better alcohol and the kind of lighting that would give Aziraphale’s cheeks a rosy glow.

Would have been nice… 

Crowley opened his eyes. Closed them. Realized what he had seen and opened them again.

He was in Medbay. No mistaking those pastel blue walls and the chorus of steady beeps from the scanners. He was lying in the intensive care bed, oxygen mask strapped to his face, and a glance to the side showed him a propped up tablet with scrolling text. _Welcome to Medbay, Crewmate [Anthony Crowley]! You are recovering from surgery. Please rest and remain calm. Your life signs are being monitored, and your crewmates will check on you periodically. Enjoy your stay in Medbay!_

Surgery. Recovering. That meant… Crowley frowned at the ceiling while he puzzled it out.

He was alive?

He was _alive._

“Zir’phale?” Crowley mumbled. He lifted a hand to rub at his face and take off the oxygen mask.

Or tried to. His hand stopped partway, and he looked down. His suit and helmet were gone, he was hooked up to half a dozen plastic tubes, and his torso was wrapped in a thick layer of bandages from collarbone to navel. It didn’t look nice at all. Felt even worse. The pain of his injury was dulled, by the anesthesia probably, but still very present.

And his wrists and ankles were strapped to the bed by padded restraints.

“What?” Crowley gave his head a little shake and winced when that made everything hurt worse. Blinking hard, trying to rouse himself from the fog of drugs, he looked the other way.

There was a control panel in his line of sight, a wall of touch screens and keypads where the average layman could type in the symptoms of the patient. Then the onboard AI would take things from there, scanning and diagnosing and operating and administering meds, all through a very complicated setup of mechanical limbs and nanobots. It was like having a whole team of doctors and nurses on staff, except these didn’t require food or oxygen to be maintained.

The entire control panel was covered in smears of blood, vivid handprints on nearly every screen and button. And slumped against the wall in the corner was Aziraphale, helmet off, eyes shut. His once-white suit was also splattered with red. Far too much red.

Crowley stared for at least thirty seconds trying to process what he was seeing. “Aziraphale?”

No response. Not even a twitch.

The scanners began to beep more urgently.

“Aziraphale!” Crowley pulled at the restraints, breath coming short and fast. He looked to the open door. “Someone… someone, please! He needs help! He…”

But there was no one else, he realized, a terrible chill settling in his gut. Shadwell was dead. _Every_ crewmate was dead. He was alone, completely alone on a ship that was halfway to falling apart, and he couldn’t even get out of this damned bed.

And what about the imposter? Was it gone? Or was it still alive, prowling the ship, reveling in the freedom to feast on its victims?

Had the sick bastard killed Aziraphale and left him there for Crowley to see?

An animalistic sound was torn from his throat, somewhere between a wail and a sob. He kicked and flailed as much as his weakened body would allow, for all the good it would do. It was too late anyway. He could already hear Gabriel coming, that familiar purposeful gait striding down the hallway, he was going to walk into Medbay any minute and gloat about his victory and make Crowley watch as he ate Aziraphale down to the bones, down to _nothing,_ and then it would finally be Crowley’s turn…

“...ey! Crowley, it’s alright! You’re safe, it’s only me…!”

Hands on his shoulders, pinning him down. Crowley lashed out, trying to scream, but he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t _see_ anything, he was still waiting for the descent of sharp teeth and a gaping maw, for pain and oblivion.

_“Confirm selection. Injecting sedative.”_

All at once, with no warning, the strength went out of him. It was a gentle thing and probably should have been alarming, but Crowley couldn’t convince himself to care. He was… really very tired all of a sudden.

Someone stroked his hair, his cheek. Crowley sighed and turned into the touch and knew nothing more for a time. He drifted in and out, sometimes waking alone, but more often it was to the sight of Aziraphale at his bedside. He must have spent days in that half-conscious state because at some point Aziraphale cleaned the blood off his suit and also removed Crowley’s restraints _(had to be sure,_ he mumbled in apology). But no matter how much time passed, he still had the same dark circles under his eyes, the same gauntness to his cheeks.

“He used the vents,” Aziraphale said, when Crowley was awake enough to register the words. He was seated on the next bed over, hands clasped tightly in his lap. “That was how he killed and moved away from the bodies so quickly. I took Gabriel’s access code and checked the camera files, the ones that he told me were ‘corrupted data’. He would… kill them, let the remains be discovered and moved to the morgue, and then while everyone was busy working their shifts, he would go in there and…”

Aziraphale swallowed and said no more. Crowley wondered morbidly just how many of those camera files he had dared to watch, if he had made himself witness every single terrible thing Gabriel had done to their fallen crewmates.

“...we couldn’t have known,” Crowley rasped. “I didn’t think it was him either. Thought it was Shadwell for the longest time.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Or you.”

Aziraphale looked up, lips parted in surprise. “Me? But you never… we were still sharing a _bed,_ Crowley!”

Crowley smirked. “Yeah, well. Figured if it _was_ you, I’d probably end up the last one standing. Thought maybe I could convince you to let me stay alive. Be your concubine or something.”

Far from laughing at his feeble joke, Aziraphale looked even more sickened. “Good Heavens…”

“What? Wouldn’t be so bad, having a flesh-eating space alien for a boyfriend. Might’ve made the blowjobs a little nerve-wracking, but…”

“My dear, that is _not_ funny!”

“Oh, like you’re one to talk. You were still sleeping with me, even though you thought _I_ was the imposter all along.”

Aziraphale went very red. “I… well, I… it was the only way to keep an eye on you!” he blustered. “Why do you think I questioned you every time you got up to use the bathroom or to start a shift?”

“Aw, and here I thought you cared about me,” Crowley teased. Or at least, he _meant_ for it to be teasing. But his own voice betrayed him, came out bitter and broken. He looked away, glaring at the opposite wall. Apparently he wasn’t dealing with the whole betrayed-by-his-lover thing as well as he’d thought.

“...forgive me.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Aziraphale bury his face in his hands, and oh no, that was _worse,_ so much worse than the blustering. “I’m sorry, Crowley, my dearest, I’m so, _so_ sorry. I don’t deserve your forgiveness, I know that, but… I was trying so hard to put the clues together, and your name kept coming up as the most likely suspect, but I kept telling myself I was wrong, I _had_ to be wrong. And then another body would turn up, and I knew it was my fault for keeping my suspicions to myself, delaying the inevitable. But I should have known!”

“You couldn’t have known,” Crowley said. “These things, they… there have been other crews who turned on each other, murdered each other down to the last. Killed their friends, relatives, convinced they could figure it out just by process of elimination. It’s a witch hunt, plain and simple.”

“...I’ve heard other stories,” Aziraphale whispered. “Tales of heroism, of sacrifice. Of people who _did_ figure it out and managed to protect each other. I always thought I could be one of those people. But Crowley, I would have been dead if you hadn’t…”

He fell silent. And Crowley couldn’t bear that either. Sodding _love,_ making him forgive even the most egregious of mistakes.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale looked up. Crowley held out his hand and for a moment worried Aziraphale wouldn’t take it. He seemed a bit poleaxed at the invitation, like he had walked up to an executioner’s block and been met with flowers instead of an axe. He stood up, wavering for a moment, then stumbled over to the bed and grasped Crowley’s hand. A tug brought him even closer, and Aziraphale sobbed as he sank into Crowley’s arms, head nestled under his chin, positioning himself carefully so he wouldn’t put pressure on Crowley’s wound.

“You know why I let that thing stab me instead of you, right?” Crowley murmured into his hair. A few traitorous tears escaped him before he could blink them back. “Don’t, don’t make me say it out loud, it’s embarrassing. Just tell me that you know.”

Aziraphale sniffed mightily and nodded. “I think I do.” He pressed his palm to Crowley’s heart and kissed his jawline. “I love you, too,” he whispered.

Oh, that was _it._ Crowley was done. Death by affection, that was what his tombstone would read. Here lies Crowley, who spent his last day so full of the warm and fuzzies that he exploded and died on the spot. He will be forever remembered as a sap and softie and utterly whipped for his badass boyfriend, who might or might not be the first person in spacefaring history to have killed an imposter in one on one combat.

He held Aziraphale close and waited until he was sure he could speak without bursting into humiliating tears. “Hey. We have enough oxygen and food and whatnot to get back planetside, right? Cause I really, _really_ want to take you out to a nice dinner. Outdoor seating under the stars, little lantern lights strung up all around…”

“That sounds lovely,” Aziraphale said. “We could have champagne. I could feed you little morsels from my fingers.”

“Mm. Chocolate strawberries?”

“Whatever you like, my darling.”

They drifted off to sleep in the same bed that night, to the familiar sounds of beeping scanners and humming machinery, as the newly repaired navigation system slowly guided them on through the stars.


End file.
